THE  COURAGE 
THE  COMMONPLACE 


MART  RAYMOND  SHIPMAN  ANDREWS 

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Mary  Raymond  Shipman  Andrews 
The  Perfect  Tribute 
The  Lifted  Bandage 
The  Courage  of 
9  the  Commonplace 

Maltbie  Davenport  Babcock 

The  Success  of  Defeat 

Katharine  Holland  Brown 
The  Messenger 

Richard  Harding  Davis 
The  Consul 

Robert  Herrick 

The  Master  of  the  Inn 

Frederick  Landis 

The  Angel  of  Lonesome  Hill 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

A  Christmas  Sermon 
Prayers  Written  at  Vailima 
Aes  Triplex 

Isobel  Strong 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

Henry  van  Dyke 

School  of  Life 

The  Spirit  of  Christmas 

The  Sad  Shepherd 


THE  COURAGE  OF 
THE  COMMONPLACE 


It  was  all  over 


THE  COURAGE  OF 
THE  COMMONPLACE 


BY 

Mary  Raymond  Shipman  Andrews 

AUTHOB  OF  "BOB  AND  THE  GUIDES,"  "THE  MILITANTS," 
"VIVE  L'EMPKREUR  " 


NEW  YORK 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
1911 


Copyright,  1911,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


Published  September,  1911 


THE  COURAGE  OF 
THE  COMMONPLACE 


THE  COURAGE  OF  THE 
COMMONPLACE 

THE  girl  and  her  chaperon  had 
been  deposited  early  in  the  de- 
sirable second-story  window  in 
Durfee,  looking  down  on  the  tree. 
Brant  was  a  senior  and  a  "Bones" 
man,  and  so  had  a  leading  part  to 
play  in  the  afternoon's  drama.  He 
must  get  the  girl  and  the  chaperon  off 
his  hands,  and  be  at  his  business.  This 
was  "Tap  Day."  It  is  perhaps  well 
to  explain  what  "Tap  Day"  means; 
there  are  people  who  have  not  been 
at  Yale  or  had  sons  or  sweethearts 
there. 

In  New  Haven,  on  the  last  Thursday 

of  May,  toward  five  in  the  afternoon, 

[i] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

one  becomes  aware  that  the  sea  of 
boys  which  ripples  always  over  the 
little  city  has  condensed  into  a  river 
flowing  into  the  campus.  There  the 
flood  divides  and  re-divides;  the  jun- 
ior class  is  separating  and  gathering 
from  all  directions  into  a  solid  mass 
about  the  nucleus  of  a  large,  low- 
hanging  oak  tree  inside  the  college 
fence  in  front  of  Durfee  Hall.  The 
three  senior  societies  of  Yale,  Skull 
and  Bones,  Scroll  and  Key,  and  Wolf's 
Head,  choose  to-day  fifteen  members 
each  from  the  junior  class,  the  fifteen 
members  of  the  outgoing  senior  class 
making  the  choice.  Each  senior  is  al- 
lotted his  man  of  the  juniors,  and 
must  find  him  in  the  crowd  at  the  tree 
and  tap  him  on  the  shoulder  and  give 
him  the  order  to  go  to  his  room.  Fol- 
lowed by  his  sponsor  he  obeys  and 

[2] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
what  happens  at  the  room  no  one  but 
the  men  of  the  society  know.  With 
shining  face  the  lad  comes  back  later 
and  is  slapped  on  the  shoulder  and 
told,  "good  work,  old  man,"  cordially 
and  whole-heartedly  by  every  friend 
and  acquaintance — by  lads  who  have 
"made"  every  honor  possible,  by  lads 
who  have  "made"  nothing,  just  as 
heartily.  For  that  is  the  spirit  of  Yale. 
Only  juniors  room  in  Durfee  Hall. 
On  Tap  Day  an  outsider  is  lucky  who 
has  a  friend  there,  for  a  window  is  a 
proscenium  box  for  the  play — the  play 
which  is  a  tragedy  to  all  but  forty-five 
of  the  three  hundred  and  odd  juniors. 
The  windows  of  every  story  of  the 
gray  stone  fa9ade  are  crowded  with 
a  deeply  interested  audience ;  grizzled 
heads  of  old  graduates  mix  with 
flowery  hats  of  women;  every  one  is 

[3] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

watching  every  detail,  every  arrival. 
In  front  of  the  Hall  is  a  drive,  and 
room  for  perhaps  a  dozen  carriages 
next  the  fence — the  famous  fence  of 
Yale — which  rails  the  campus  round. 
Just  inside  it,  at  the  north-east  cor- 
ner, rises  the  tree.  People  stand  up  in 
the  carriages,  women  and  men;  the 
fence  is  loaded  with  people,  often 
standing,  too,  to  see  that  tree. 

All  over  the  campus  surges  a  crowd; 
students  of  the  other  classes,  seniors 
who  last  year  stood  in  the  compact 
gathering  at  the  tree  and  left  it  sore- 
hearted,  not  having  been  "taken"; 
sophomores  who  will  stand  there  next 
year,  who  already  are  hoping  for  and 
dreading  their  Tap  Day ;  little  fresh- 
men, each  one  sure  that  he,  at  least, 
will  be  of  the  elect;  and  again  the 
iron-gray  heads,  the  interested  faces 

[4] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
of  old  Yale  men,  and  the  gay  spring 
hats  like  bouquets  of  flowers. 

It  is,  perhaps,  the  most  critical  sin- 
gle day  of  the  four  years'  course  at  the 
University.  It  shows  to  the  world 
whether  or  no  a  boy,  after  three  years 
of  college  life,  has  in  the  eyes  of  the 
student  body  "made  good."  It  is  a 
crucial  test,  a  heart-rending  test  for 
a  boy  of  twenty  years. 

The  girl  sitting  in  the  window  of 
Durfee  understood  thoroughly  the 
character  and  the  chances  of  the  day. 
The  seniors  at  the  tree  wear  derby 
hats;  the  juniors  none  at  all;  it  is 
easier  by  this  sign  to  distinguish  the 
classmen,  and  to  keep  track  of  the 
tapping.  The  girl  knew  of  what  society 
was  each  black-hatted  man  who  twist- 
ed through  the  bareheaded  throng; 
in  that  sea  of  tense  faces  she  recog- 
[5] 


THE   COURAGE  OF 

nized  many ;  she  could  find  a  familiar 
head  almost  anywhere  in  the  mass 
and  tell  as  much  as  an  outsider  might 
what  hope  was  hovering  over  it.  She 
came  of  Yale  people;  Brant,  her 
brother,  would  graduate  this  year; 
she  was  staying  at  the  house  of  a  Yale 
professor;  she  was  in  the  atmosphere. 
There,  near  the  edge  of  the  pack, 
was  Bob  Floyd,  captain  of  the  crew,  a 
fair,  square  face  with  quiet  blue  eyes, 
whose  tranquil  gaze  was  character- 
istic. To-day  it  was  not  tranquil;  it 
flashed  anxiously  here  and  there,  and 
the  girl  smiled.  She  knew  as  certainly 
as  if  the  fifteen  seniors  had  told  her 
that  Floyd  would  be  "tapped  for 
Bones."  The  crew  captain  and  the 
foot-ball  captain  are  almost  inevi- 
tably taken  for  Skull  and  Bones.  Yet 
five  years  before  Jack  Emmett,  cap- 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
tain  of  the  crew,  had  not  been  taken ; 
only  two  years  back  Bert  Connolly, 
captain  of  the  foot-ball  team,  had  not 
been  taken.  The  girl,  watching  the 
big  chap's  unconscious  face,  knew 
well  what  was  in  his  mind.  "What 
chance  have  I  against  all  these  bully 
fellows,"  he  was  saying  to  himself  in 
his  soul,  "even  if  I  do  happen  to  be 
crew  captain  ?  Connolly  was  a  mutt — 
couldn't  take  him — but  Jack  Emmett 
— there  wasn't  any  reason  to  be  seen 
for  that.  And  it's  just  muscles  I've  got 
— I'm  not  clever — I  don't  hit  it  off 
with  the  crowd — I've  done  nothing 
for  Yale,  but  just  the  crew.  Why  the 
dickens  should  they  take  me?"  But 
the  girl  knew. 

The  great  height  and  refined,  super- 
cilious face  of  another  boy  towered 
near — Lionel  Arnold,  a  born  litter- 

[7] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

ateur,  and  an  artist — he  looked  more 
confident  than  most.  It  seemed  to  the 
girl  he  felt  sure  of  being  taken;  sure 
that  his  name  and  position  and,  more 
than  all,  his  developed,  finished  per- 
sonality must  count  as  much  as  that. 
And  the  girl  knew  that  in  the  direct, ; 
unsophisticated    judgments    of    the 
judges  these  things  did  not  count  at/ 
all. 

So  she  gunned  over  the  swarm 
which  gathered  to  the  oak  tree  as  bees 
to  a  hive,  able  to  tell  often  what  was 
to  happen.  Even  to  her  young  eyes  all 
these  anxious,  upturned  faces,  watch- 
ing silently  with  throbbing  pulses  for 
this  first  vital  decision  of  their  lives, 
was  a  stirring  sight. 

"I  can't  bear  it  for  the  ones  who 
aren't  taken,"  she  cried  out,  and  the 
chaperon  did  not  smile. 

[8] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 

"I  know,"  she  said.  "Each  year  I 
think  I'll  never  come  again — it's  too 
heart-rending.  It  means  so  much  to 
them,  and  only  forty-five  can  go  away 
happy.  Numbers  are  just  broken- 
hearted. I  don't  like  it— it's  brutal." 

"Yes,  but  it's  an  incentive  to  the 
under-classmen — it  holds  them  to  the 
mark  and  gives  them  ambition, 
doesn't  it?"  the  girl  argued  doubt- 
fully. 

The  older  woman  agreed.  "I  sup- 
pose on  the  whole  it's  a  good  institu- 
tion. And  it's  wonderful  what  wisdom 
the  boys  show.  Of  course,  they  make 
mistakes,  but  on  the  whole  they  pick 
the  best  men  astonishingly.  So  many 
times  they  hit  the  ones  who  come  to 
be  distinguished." 

"  But  so  many  times  they  don't,"  the 

girl  followed  her  words.  Her  father 

[9] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

and  Brant  were  Bones  men — why  was 
the  girl  arguing  against  senior  socie- 
ties? "So  many,  Mrs.  Anderson. 
Uncle  Ted's  friend,  the  President  of 
Hardrington  College,  was  in  Yale  in 
the  '80's  and  made  no  senior  society; 
Judge  Marston  of  the  Supreme  Court 
dined  with  us  the  other  night — he 
didn't  make  anything;  Dr.  Hamlin, 
who  is  certainly  one  of  the  great  phy- 
sicians of  the  country,  wasn't  taken. 
I  know  a  lot  more.  And  look  at  some 
who've  made  things.  Look  at  my 
cousin,  Gus  Vanderpool — he  made 
Keys  twenty  years  ago  and  has  never 
done  a  thing  since.  And  that  fat 
Mr.  Hough,  who's  so  rich  and  dull — 
he's  Bones." 

"You've  got  statistics  at  your  fin- 
gers' ends,  haven't  you  ? "  said  Mrs. 
Anderson.    "Anybody    might    think 
[10] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
you  had  a  brother  among  the  juniors 
whom  you  weren't  hopeful  about." 
She  looked  at  the  girl  curiously.  Then : 
"They  must  be  about  all  there,"  she 
spoke,  leaning  out.  "A  full  fifty  feet 
square  of  dear  frightened  laddies. 
There's  Brant,  coming  across  the 
campus.  He  looks  as  if  he  was  going 
to  make  some  one  president.  I  sup- 
pose he  feels  so.  There's  Johnny  Mc- 
Lean. I  hope  he'll  be  taken — he's  the 
nicest  boy  in  the  whole  junior  class — 
but  I'm  afraid.  He  hasn't  done  any- 
thing in  particular." 

With  that,  a  thrill  caught  the  most 
callous  of  the  hundreds  of  spectators ; 
a  stillness  fixed  the  shifting  crowd; 
from  the  tower  of  Battell  chapel,  close 
by,  the  college  bell  clanged  the  stroke 
of  five ;  before  it  stopped  striking  the 
first  two  juniors  would  be  tapped. 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

The  dominating,  unhurried  note  rang, 
echoed,  and  began  to  die  away  as  they 
saw  Brant's  hand  fall  on  Bob  Floyd's 
shoulder.  The  crew  captain  whirled 
and  leaped,  unseeing,  through  the 
crowd.  A  great  shout  rose;  all  over 
the  campus  the  people  surged  like  a 
wind-driven  wave  toward  the  two 
rushing  figures,  and  everywhere  some 
one  cried,  "Floyd  has  gone  Bones!" 
and  the  exciting  business  had  begun. 
One  looks  at  the  smooth  faces  of 
boys  of  twenty  and  wonders  what  the 
sculptor  Life  is  going  to  make  of  them. 
Those  who  have  known  his  work 
know  what  sharp  tools  are  in  his  kit; 
they  know  the  tragic  possibilities  as 
well  as  the  happy  ones  of  those  inevi- 
table strokes ;  they  shrink  a  bit  as  they 
look  at  the  smooth  faces  of  the  boys 
and  realize  how  that  clay  must  be 

[12] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
moulded  in  the  workshop — how  the 
strong  lines  which  ought  to  be  there 
some  day  must  come  from  the  cutting 
of  pain  and  the  grinding  of  care  and 
the  push  and  weight  of  responsibility. 
Yet  there  is  service  and  love,  too,  and 
happiness  and  the  slippery  bright 
blade  of  success  in  the  kit  of  Life  the 
sculptor;  so  they  stand  and  watch,  a 
bit  pitifully  but  hopefully,  as  the  work 
begins,  and  cannot  guide  the  chisel 
but  a  little  way,  yet  would  not,  if  they 
could,  stop  it,  for  the  finished  job  is 
going  to  be,  they  trust,  a  man,  and 
only  the  sculptor  Life  can  make  such. 
The  boy  called  Johnny  McLean 
glanced  up  at  the  window  in  Durfee; 
he  met  the  girl's  eyes,  and  the  girl 
smiled  back  and  made  a  gay  motion 
with  her  hand  as  if  to  say,  "  Keep  up 
your  pluck;  you'll  be  taken."  And 

[13] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

wished  she  felt  sure  of  it.  For,  as  Mrs. 
Anderson  had  said,  he  had  done  noth- 
ing in  particular.  His  marks  were 
good,  he  was  a  fair  athlete;  good  at 
rowing,  good  at  track  work;  he  had 
"heeled"  the  News  for  a  year,  but 
had  not  made  the  board.  A  gift  of 
music,  which  bubbled  without  effort, 
had  put  him  on  the  Glee  Club.  Yet  that 
had  come  to  him;  it  was  not  a  thing 
he  had  done ;  boys  are  critical  of  such 
distinctions.  It  is  said  that  Skull  and 
Bones  aims  at  setting  its  seal  above 
all  else  on  character.  This  boy  had 
sailed  buoyantly  from  term  to  term 
delighted  with  the  honors  which  came 
to  his  friends,  friends  with  the  men 
who  carried  off  honors,  with  the  best 
and  strongest  men  in  his  class,  yet! 
never  quite  arriving  for  himself.  As 
the  bright,  anxious  young  face  looked 

[14] 


; 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
up  at  the  window  where  the  women 
sat,  the  older  one  thought  she  could 
read  the  future  in  it,  and  she  sighed. 
It  was  a  face  which  attracted,  broad- 
browed,  clear-eyed,  and  honest,  but 
not  a  strong  face — yet.  John  Mc- 
Lean had  only  made  beginnings;  he 
had  accomplished  nothing.  Mrs.  An- 
derson, out  of  an  older  experience, 
sighed,  because  she  had  seen  just  such 
winning,  lovable  boys  before,  and 
had  seen  them  grow  into  saddened, 
unsuccessful  men.  Yet  he  was  full 
of  possibility;  the  girl  was  hoping 
against  hope  that  Brant  and  the  four- 
teen other  seniors  of  Skull  and  Bones 
would  see  it  so  and  take  him  on  that 
promise.  She  was  not  pretending  to 
herself  that  anything  but  Johnny  Mc- 
Lean's fate  in  it  was  the  point  of  this 
Tap  Day  to  her.  She  was  very  young, 

[15] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

only  twenty  also,  but  there  was  a 
maturity  in  her  to  which  the  boy  made 
an  appeal.  She  felt  a  strength  which 
others  missed ;  she  wanted  him  to  find 
it;  she  wanted  passionately  to  see  him 
take  his  place  where  she  felt  he  be- 
longed, with  the  men  who  counted. 
The  play  was  in  full  action.  Grave 
and  responsible  seniors  worked  swift- 
ly here  and  there  through  the  tight 
mass,  searching  each  one  his  man; 
every  two  or  three  minutes  a  man  was 
found  and  felt  that  thrilling  touch  and 
heard  the  order,  "Go  to  your  room." 
Each  time  there  was  a  shout  of  ap- 
plause ;  each  time  the  campus  rushed 
in  a  wave.  And  still  the  three  hun- 
dred stood  packed,  waiting — thinning 
a  little,  but  so  little.  About  thirty  had 
been  taken  now,  and  the  black  senior 
hats  were  visibly  fewer,  but  the  up- 

[16] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
turned  boy  faces  seemed  exactly  the 
same.  Only  they  grew  more  anxious 
minute  by  minute ;  minute  by  minute 
they  turned  more  nervously  this  way 
and  that  as  the  seniors  worked  through 
the  mass.  And  as  another  and  another 
crashed  from  among  them  blind  and 
solemn  and  happy  with  his  guardian 
senior  close  after,  the  ones  who  were 
left  seemed  to  drop  into  deeper  quiet. 
And  now  there  were  only  two  black 
hats  in  the  throng;  the  girl  looking 
down  saw  John  McLean  standing 
stiffly,  his  gray  eyes  fixed,  his  face 
pale  and  set ;  at  that  moment  the  two 
seniors  found  their  men  together.  It 
was  all  over.  He  had  not  been  taken. 
Slowly  the  two  hundred  and  fifty 
odd  men  who  had  not  been  good 
enough  dispersed,  pluckily  laughing 
and  talking  together — all  of  them,  it 
[17] 


THE   COURAGE  OF 

is  safe  to  say,  with  heavy  hearts;  for 
Tap  Day  counts  as  much  as  that  at 
Yale. 

John  McLean  swung  across  the 
diagonal  of  the  campus  toward  Welch 
Hall  where  he  lived.  He  saw  the  girl 
and  her  chaperon  come  out  of  Durf  ee ; 
and  he  lingered  to  meet  them.  Two 
days  ago  he  had  met  the  girl  here  with 
Brant,  and  she  had  stopped  and 
shaken  hands.  It  seemed  to  him  it 
would  help  if  that  should  happen  to- 
day. She  might  say  a  word ;  anything 
at  all  to  show  that  she  was  friends  all 
the  same  with  a  fellow  who  wasn't 
good  enough.  He  longed  for  that. 
With  a  sick  chaos  of  pain  pounding 
at  what  seemed  to  .be  his  lungs  he 
met  her.  Mrs.  Anderson  was  between 
them,  putting  out  a  quick  hand;  the 
boy  hardly  saw  her  as  he  took  it.  He 

[18] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
saw  the  girl,  and  the  girl  did  not  look 
at  him.  With  her  head  up  and  her 
brown  eyes  fixed  on  Phelps  gate-way 
she  hurried  along — and  did  not  look 
at  him.  He  could  not  believe  it — that 
girl — the  girl.  But  she  was  gone;  she 
had  not  looked  at  him.  Like  a  shot 
animal  he  suddenly  began  to  run.  He 
got  to  his  rooms — they  were  empty; 
Baby  Thomas,  his  "wife,"  known  as 
Archibald  Babington  Thomas  on  the 
catalogue,  but  not  elsewhere,  had 
been  taken  for  Scroll  and  Key;  he 
was  off  with  the  others  who  were 
worth  while.  This  boy  went  into  his 
tiny  bedroom  and  threw  himself  down 
with  his  face  in  his  pillow  and  lay 
still.  Men  and  women  learn — some- 
times— as  they  grow  older,  how  to 
shut  the  doors  against  disappoint- 
ments so  that  only  the  vital  ones  cut 

[19] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

through,  but  at  twenty  all  doors  are 
open ;  the  iron  had  come  into  his  soul, 
and  the  girl  had  given  it  a  twist  which 
had  taken  his  last  ounce  of  courage. 
He  lay  still  a  long  time,  enduring — 
all  he  could  manage  at  first.  It  might 
have  been  an  hour  later  that  he  got 
up  and  went  to  his  desk  and  sat  down 
in  the  fading  light,  his  hands  deep 
in  his  trousers  pockets;  his  athletic 
young  figure  dropped  together  list- 
lessly; his  eyes  staring  at  the  desk 
where  he  had  worked  away  so  many 
cheerful  hours.  Pictures  hung  around 
it ;  there  was  a  group  taken  last  sum- 
mer of  girls  and  boys  at  his  home  in 
the  country,  the  girl  was  in  it — he  did 
not  look  at  her.  His  father's  portrait 
stood  on  the  desk,  and  a  painting  of 
his  long-dead  mother.  He  thought  to 
himself  hotly  that  it  was  good  she  was 

[20] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
dead  rather  than  see  him  shamed.  For 
the  wound  was  throbbing  with  fever, 
and  the  boy  had  not  got  to  a  sense  of 
proportion ;  his  future  seemed  black- 
ened. His  father's  picture  stabbed  him ; 
he  was  a  "Bones"  man — all  of  his 
family — his  grandfather,  and  the  older 
brothers  who  had  graduated  four  and 
six  years  ago — all  of  them.  Except 
himself.  The  girl  had  thought  it  such 
a  disgrace  that  she  would  not  look  at 
him !  Then  he  grew  angry.  It  wasn't 
decent,  to  hit  a  man  when  he  was  down . 
A  woman  ought  to  be  gentle — if  his 
mother  had  been  alive — but  then  he 
was  glad  she  wasn't.  With  that  a  sob 
shook  him — startled  him.  Angrily  he 
stood  up  and  glared  about  the  place. 
This  wouldn't  do ;  he  must  pull  himself 
together.  He  walked  up  and  down  the 
little  living  room,  bright  with  boys' 
[21] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

belongings,  with  fraternity  shields  and 
flags  and  fencing  foils  and  paddles  and 
pictures ;  he  walked  up  and  down  and 
he  whistled  "  Dunderbeck,"  which 
somehow  was  in  his  head.  Then  he  was 
singing  it: 

"Oh  Dunderbeck,  Oh  Dunderbeck,  how  could 

you  be  so  mean 
As  even    to   have  thought   of   such   a   terrible 

machine ! 
For  bob-tailed  rats  and  pussy-cats  shall  never 

more  be  seen; 
They'll  all  be  ground  to  sausage-meat  in  Dun- 

derbeck's  machine." 

There  are  times  when  Camembert 
cheese  is  a  steadying  thing  to  think  of 
— or  golf  balls.  "Dunderbeck"  an- 
swered for  John  McLean.  It  ap- 
peared difficult  to  sing,  however — 
he  harked  back  to  whistling.  Then 
the  clear  piping  broke  suddenly.  He 
bit  his  lower  lip  and  went  and  sat 

[22] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
down  before  the  desk  again  and 
turned  on  the  electric  reading-lamp. 
Now  he  had  given  in  long  enough; 
now  he  must  face  the  situation ;  now 
was  the  time  to  find  if  there  was  any 
backbone  in  him  to  "buck  up."  To 
fool  those  chaps  by  amounting  to 
something.  There  was  good  stuff  in 
the  boy  that  he  applied  this  caustic 
and  not  a  salve.  His  buoyant  light- 
heartedness  whispered  that  the  fel- 
lows made  mistakes;  that  he  was 
only  one  of  many  good  chaps  left; 
that  Dick  Harding  had  a  pull  and  Jim 
Stanton  an  older  brother — excuses 
came.  But  the  boy  checked  them. 

"That's  not  the  point;  I  didn't 
make  it;  I  didn't  deserve  it;  I've 
been  easy  on  myself;  I've  got  to 
change;  so  some  day  my  people 
won't  be  ashamed  of  me — maybe." 
[231 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

Slowly,  painfully,  he  fought  his  way 
to  a  tentative  self-respect.  He  might 
not  ever  be  anything  big,  a  power  as 
his  father  was,  but  he  could  be  a  hard 
worker,  he  could  make  a  place.  A  few 
days  before  a  famous  speaker  had 
given  an  address  on  an  ethical  sub- 
ject at  Yale.  A  sentence  of  it  came  to 
the  boy's  struggling  mind.  "  The  cour- 
age of  the  commonplace  is  greater 
than  the  courage  of  the  crisis,"  the 
orator  had  said.  That  was  his  chance 
— "  the  courage  of  the  commonplace." 
No  fireworks  for  him,  perhaps,  ever, 
but,  by  Jove,  work  and  will  could  do 
a  lot,  and  he  could  prove  himself 
worthy. 

"  I'm  not  through  yet,  by  ginger,"  he 
said  out  loud.  "I  can  do  my  best  any- 
how and  I'll  show  if  I'm  not  fit" — the 
energetic  tone  trailed  off — he  was  only 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
a  boy  of  twenty — "not  fit  to  be  looked 
at,"  he  finished  brokenly. 

It  came  to  him  in  a  vague,  comfort- 
ing way  that  probably  the  best  game .; 
a  man  could  play  with  his  life  would 
be  to  use  it  as  a  tool  to  do  work  with ; 
to  keep  it  at  its  brightest,  cleanest, 
most  efficient  for  the  sake  of  the  work. 
This  boy,  of  no  phenomenal  sort,  had 
one  marked  quality — when  he  had 
made  a  decision  he  acted  on  it.  To- 
night through  the  soreness  of  a  bitter 
disappointment  he  put  his  finger  on 
the  highest  note  of  his  character  and 
resolved.  All  unknown  to  himself  it 
was  a  crisis. 

It  was  long  past  dinner-time,  but  he 
dashed  out  now  and  got  food,  and 
when  Baby  Thomas  came  in  he  found 
his  room-mate  sleepy,  but  quite  him- 
self; quite  steady  in  his  congratula- 

[25] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

tions  as  well  as  normal  in  his  abuse 
for  "keeping  a  decent  white  man 
awake  to  this  hour." 

Three  years  later  the  boy  graduated 
from  the  Boston  "Tech."  As  his  class 
poured  from  Huntington  Hall,  he 
saw  his  father  waiting  for  him.  He 
noted  with  pride,  as  he  always  did, 
the  tall  figure,  topped  with  a  won- 
derful head — a  mane  of  gray  hair,  a 
face  carved  in  iron,  squared  and  cut 
down  to  the  marrow  of  brains  and 
force — a  man  to  be  seen  in  any  crowd. 
With  that,  as  his  own  met  the  keen 
eyes  behind  the  spectacles,  he  was 
aware  of  a  look  which  startled  him. 
The  boy  had  graduated  at  the  very 
head  of  his  class;  that  light  in  his) 
father's  eyes  all  at  once  made  two; 
years  of  work  a  small  thing.  | 

[26] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
"I  didn't  know  you  were  coming, 
sir.  That's  mighty  nice  of  you,"  he 
said,  as  they  walked  down  Boylston 
Street  together,  and  his  father  waited 
a  moment  and  then  spoke  in  his  usual 
incisive  tone. 

"I  wouldn't  have  liked  to  miss  it, 
Johnny,"  he  said.  "I  don't  remem- 
ber that  anything  in  my  life  has  ever 
made  me  as  satisfied  as  you  have 
to-day." 

With  a  gasp  of  astonishment  the 
young  man  looked  at  him,  looked 
away,  looked  at  the  tops  of  the  houses, 
and  did  not  find  a  word  anywhere. 
His  father  had  never  spoken  to  him 
so;  never  before,  perhaps,  had  he 
said  anything  as  intimate  to  any  of 
his  sons.  They  knew  that  the  coldj 
;manner  of  the  great  engineer  covered! 
I  depths,  but  they  never  expected  to! 

[27] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

see  the  depths  uncovered.  But  here 
he  was,  talking  of  what  he  felt,  of 
character,  and  honor  and  effort. 

"I've  appreciated  what  you've  been 
doing,"  the  even  voice  went  on.  "I 
talk  little  about  personal  affairs.  But 
I'm  not  uninterested;  I  watch.  I  was 
anxious  about  you.  You  were  a  more 
uncertain  quantity  than  Ted  and 
Harry.  Your  first  three  years  at  Yale 
were  not  satisfactory.  I  was  afraid  you 
lacked  manliness.  Then  came — a  dis- 
appointment. It  was  a  blow  to  us — 
to  family  pride.  I  watched  you  more 
closely,  and  I  saw  before  that  year 
ended  that  you  were  taking  your 
medicine  rightly.  I  wanted  to  tell  you 
of  my  contentment,  but  being  slow 
of  speech  I — couldn't.  So" — the  iron 
face  broke  for  a  second  into  a  whimsi- 
cal grin — "so  I  offered  you  a  motor. 

[28] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
And  you  wouldn't  take  it.  I  knew, 
though  you  didn't  explain,  that  you 
feared  it  would  interfere  with  your 
studies.  I  was  right  ?  "  Johnny  nodded. 
"Yes.  And  your  last  year  at  college 
was — was  all  I  could  wish.  I  see  now 
that  you  needed  a  blow  in  the  face  to 
wake  you  up — and  you  got  it.  And 
you  waked."  The  great  engineer 
smiled  with  clean  pleasure.  "I  have 
had"— he  hesitated— "I  have  had 
always  a  feeling  of  responsibility  to 
your  mother  for  you — more  than  for 
the  others.  You  were  so  young  when 
she  died  that  you  seem  more  her 
child.  I  was  afraid  I  had  not  treated 
you  well — that  it  was  my  fault  if  you 
failed."  The  boy  made  a  gesture — he 
could  not  very  well  speak.  His  father 
went  on:  "So  when  you  refused  the 
motor,  when  you  went  into  engineer's 

[29] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

camp  that  first  summer  instead  of 
going  abroad,  I  was  pleased.  Your 
course  here  has  been  a  satisfaction, 
without  a  drawback — keener,  cer- 
tainly, because  I  am  an  engineer,  and 
could  appreciate,  step  by  step,  how 
well  you  were  doing,  how  much  you 
were  giving  up  to  do  it,  how  much 
power  you  were  gaining  by  that  long 
sacrifice.  I've  respected  you  through 
these  years  of  commonplace,  and  I've 
known  how  much  more  courage  it 
meant  in  a  pleasure-loving  lad  such  as 
you  than  it  would  have  meant  in  a  seri- 
ous person  such  as  I  am — such  as  Ted 
and  Harry  are,  to  an  extent,  also." 
The  older  man,  proud  and  strong 
and  reserved,  turned  on  his  son  such 
a  shining  face  as  the  boy  had  never 
seen.  "  That  boyish  failure  isn't  wiped 
out,  Johnny,  for  I  shall  remember  it 

[30] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
as  the  corner-stone  of  your  career, 
already  built  over  with  an  honorable 
record.   You've  made  good.   I  con- 
gratulate and  I  honor  you." 

The  boy  never  knew  how  he  got 
home.  He  knocked  his  shins  badly  on 
a  quite  visible  railing  and  it  was  out 
of  the  question  to  say  a  single  word. 
But  if  he  staggered  it  was  with  an 
overload  of  happiness,  and  if  he  was 
speechless  and  blind  the  stricken  fac- 
ulties were  paralyzed  with  joy.  His 
father  walked  beside  him  and  they 
understood  each  other.  He  reeled  up 
the  streets  contented. 

That  night  there  was  a  family  din- 
ner, and  with  the  coffee  his  father 
turned  and  ordered  fresh  champagne 
opened. 

"  We  must  have  a  new  explosion  to 
drink  to  the  new  superintendent  of 

[31] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

the  Oriel  mine,"  he  said.  Johnny 
looked  at  him  surprised,  and  then  at 
the  others,  and  the  faces  were  bright 
with  the  same  look  of  something 
which  they  knew  and  he  did  not. 

"What's  up?"  asked  Johnny. 
"  Who's  the  superintendent  of  the 
Oriel  mine?  Why  do  we  drink  to 
him?  What  are  you  all  grinning 
about,  anyway?"  The  cork  flew  up 
to  the  ceiling,  and  the  butler  poured 
gold  bubbles  into  the  glasses,  all  but 
his  own. 

"Can't  I  drink  to  the  beggar,  too, 
whoever  he  is  ? "  asked  Johnny,  and 
moved  his  glass  and  glanced  up  at 
Mullins.  But  his  father  was  beaming 
at  Mullins  in  a  most  unusual  way  and 
Johnny  got  no  wine.  With  that  Ted, 
the  oldest  brother,  pushed  back  his 
chair  and  stood  and  lifted  his  glass. 

[32] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
"We'll  drink,"  he  said,  and  bowed 
formally  to  Johnny,  "to  the  gentle- 
man who  is  covering  us  all  with  glory, 
to  the  new  superintendent  of  the  Oriel 
mine,  Mr.  John  Archer  McLean," 
and  they  stood  and  drank  the  toast. 
Johnny,  more  or  less  dizzy,  more  or 
less  scarlet,  crammed  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  stared  and  turned  redder, 
and  brought  out  interrogations  in  the 
nervous  English  which  is  acquired  at 
iour  great  institutions  of  learning1.. 

"  Gosh!  are  you  all  gone  dotty  ?"  he 
asked.  And  "Is  this  a  merry  jape?" 
And  "Why,  for  cat's  sake,  can't  you 
tell  a  fellow  what's  up  your  sleeve?" 
While  the  family  sipped  champagne 
and  regarded  him. 

"Now,  if  I've  squirmed  for  you 
enough,  I  wish  you'd  explain — father, 
tell  me!"  the  boy  begged. 

[33] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 
And  the  tale  was  told  by  the  family, 
in  chorus,  without  politeness,  inter- 
rupting freely.  It  seemed  that  the 
president  of  the  big  mine  needed  a 
superintendent,  and  wishing  young 
blood  and  the  latest  ideas  had  written 
to  the  head  of  the  Mining  Department 
in  the  School  of  Technology  to  ask  if 
he  would  give  him  the  name  of  the 
ablest  man  in  the  graduating  class — 
a  man  to  be  relied  on  for  character  as 
much  as  brains,  he  specified,  for  the 
rough  army  of  miners  needed  a  gen- 
eral at  their  head  almost  more  than 
a  scientist.  Was  there  such  a  combi- 
nation to  be  found,  he  asked,  in  a 
youngster  of  twenty-three  or  twenty- 
four,  such  as  would  be  graduating  at 
the  "Tech"  ?  If  possible,  he  wanted 
a  very  young  man — he  wanted  the  en- 
thusiasm, he  wanted  the  athletic  ten- 

[34] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
dency,  he  wanted  the  plus-strength, 
he  wanted  the  unmade  reputation 
which  would  look  for  its  making  to 
hard  work  in  the  mine.  The  letter  was 
produced  and  read  to  the  shamefaced 
Johnny.  "Gosh!"  he  remarked  at  in- 
tervals and  remarked  practically  noth- 
ing else.  There  was  no  need.  They 
were  so  proud  and  so  glad  that  it  was 
almost  too  much  for  the  boy  who  had 
been  a  failure  three  years  ago. 

On  the  urgent  insistence  of  every 
one  he  made  a  speech.  He  got  to  his 
six-feet-two  slowly,  and  his  hands 
went  into  his  trousers  pockets  as 
usual.  "Holy  mackerel,"  he  began — 
"I  don't  call  it  decent  to  knock  the 
wind  out  of  a  man  and  then  hold 
him  up  for  remarks.  They  all  said  in 
college  that  I  talked  the  darnedest 
hash  in  the  class,  anyway.  But  you 

[35] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

will  have  it,  will  you  ?  I  haven't  got 
anything  to  say,  so's  you'd  notice  it, 
except  that  I'll  be  blamed  if  I  see  how 
this  is  true.  Of  course  I'm  keen  for  it — 
Keen!  I  should  say  I  was!  And  what 
makes  me  keenest,  I  believe,  is  that 
I  know  it's  satisfactory  to  Henry  Mc- 
Lean." He  turned  his  bright  face  to 
his  father.  "Any  little  plugging  I've 
done  seems  like  thirty  cents  compared 
to  that.  You're  all  peaches  to  take 
such  an  interest,  and  I  thank  you  a 
lot.  Me,  the  superintendent  of  the 
Oriel  mine!  Holy  mackerel!"  gasped 
Johnny,  and  sat  down. 

The  proportion  of  fighting  in  the 
battle  of  life  outweighs  the  "beer  and 
skittles  " ;  as  does  the  interest.  Johnny 
McLean  found  interest  in  masses, 
in  the  drab-and-dun  village  on  the 

[36] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
prairie.  He  found  pleasure,  too,  and 
as  far  as  he  could  reach  he  tried  to 
share  it;  buoyancy  and  generosity 
were  born  in  him;  strenuousness  he 
had  painfully  acquired,  and  like  most 
converts  was  a  fanatic  about  it.  He 
was  splendidly  fit;  he  was  the  best 
and  last  output  of  the  best  institution 
in  the  country;  he  went  at  his  work 
like  a  joyful  locomotive.  Yet  more 
goes  to  explain  what  he  was  and  what 
he  did.  He  developed  a  faculty  for 
leading  men.  The  cold  bath  of  failure, 
the  fire  of  success  had  tempered  the 
young  steel  of  him  to  an  excellent^ 
quality ;  bright  and  sharp,  it  cut  cob- 
webs in  the  Oriel  mine  where  cob- 
webs had  been  thickening  for  months. 
The  boy,  normal  enough,  quite  un- 
phenomenal,  was  growing  strong  by 
virtue  of  his  one  strong  quality:  he 

[37] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

did  what  he  resolved  to  do.  For  such 
a  character  to  make  a  vital  decision 
rjghtly  is  a  career.  On  the  night  of  the 
Tap  Day  which  had  so  shaken  him, 
he  had  struck  the  key-note.  He  had 
resolved  to  use  his  life  as  if  it  were  a 
tool  in  his  hand  to  do  work,  and  he 
had  so  used  it.  The  habit  of  bigness, 
once  caught,  possesses  one  as  quickly 
as  the  habit  of  drink;  Johnny  Mc- 
Lean was  as  unhampered  by  the  net 
of  smallnesses  which  tangle  most  of 
us  as  a  hermit ;  the  freedom  gave  him 
a  power  which  was  fast  making  a 
marked  man  of  him. 

There  was  dissatisfaction  among  the 
miners;  a  strike  was  probable;  the 
popularity  of  the  new  superintendent 
warded  it  off  from  month  to  month, 
which  counted  unto  him  for  righteous- 
ness in  the  mind  of  the  president,  of 

[38] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
which  Johnny  himself  was  unaware. 
Yet  the  cobwebs  grew;  there  was  an 
element  not  reached  by,  resentful  of, 
the  atmosphere  of  Johnny's  friendli- 
ness— "Terence  O'Hara's  gang."  By 
the  old  road  of  music  he  had  found 
his  way  to  the  hearts  of  many.  There 
were  good  voices  among  the  thousand 
odd  workmen,  and  Johnny  McLean 
could  not  well  live  without  music. 
He  heard  Dennis  Mulligan's  lovely 
baritone  and  Jack  Dennison's  roll- 
ing bass,  as  they  sang  at  work  in  the 
dim  tunnels  of  the  coal-mine,  and  it 
seemed  quite  simple  to  him  that  they 
and  he  and  others  should  meet  when 
work  hours  were  over  and  do  some 
singing.  Soon  it  was  a  club — then  a 
big  club ;  it  kept  men  out  of  saloons, 
which  Johnny  was  glad  of,  but  had 
not  planned.  A  small  kindliness  seems 

[39] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

often  to  be  watered  and  fertilized  by 
magic.  Johnny's  music-club  grew  to 
be  a  spell  to  quiet  wild  beasts.  Yet 
Terence  O'Hara  and  his  gang  had  a 
strong  hold;  there  was  storm  in  the 
air  and  the  distant  thunder  was  heard 
almost  continually. 

Johnny,  as  he  swung  up  the  main 
street  of  the  flat  little  town,  the  brick 
school-house  and  the  two  churches  at 
one  end,  many  saloons  en  route,  and 
the  gray  rock  dump  and  the  chimneys 
and  shaft-towers  of  the  mine  at  the 
other,  carried  a  ribbon  of  brightness 
through  the  sordid  place.  Women 
came  to  the  doors  to  smile  at  the  hand- 
some young  gentleman  who  took  his- 
.hat  off  as  if  they  were  ladies;  children, 
ran  by  his  side,  and  he  knocked  thehj 
caps  over  their  eyes  and  talked  nonj 
sense  to  them,  and  swung  on  whistt 

[40] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
ling.  But  at  night,- alone  in  his  room, 
]ie  wa&.serious.  How  to  keep  the  men 
patient;  how  to  use  his  influence  with 
them;  how  to  advise  the  president — 
for  young  as  he  was  he  had  to  do  this 
because  of  the  hold  he  had  gained  on 
the  situation ;  what  concessions  were 
wise — the  young  face  fell  into  grave 
lines  as  he  sat,  hands  deep  in  his  pock- 
ets as  usual,  and  considered  these 
questions.  Already  the  sculptor  Life 
was  chiselling  away  the  easy  curves 
with  the  tool  of  responsibility. 

He  thought  of  other  things  some- 
times as  he  sat  before  the  wood  fire 
in  his  old  Morris  chair.  His  college 
desk  was  in  the  corner  by  the  window, 
and  around  it  hung  photographs  or- 
dered much  as  they  had  been  in  New 
Haven.  The  portrait  of  his  father  on 
the  desk,  the  painting  of  his  mother, 

[41] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

and  above  them,  among  the  boys' 
faces,  that  group  of  boys  and  girls  of 
whom  she  was  one,  the  girl  whom  he 
had  not  forgotten.  He  had  not  seen 
her  since  that  Tap  Day.  She  had 
written  him  soon  after — an  invitation 
for  a  week-end  at  her  mother's  camp 
in  the  woods.  But  he  would  not  go. 
He  sat  in  the  big  chair  staring  into  the 
fire,  in  this  small  room  far  in  the  West, 
and  thought  about  it.  No,  he  could 
not  have  gone  to  her  house-party — 
how  could  he  ?  He  had  thought,  poor 
lunatic,  that  there  was  an  unspoken 
word  between  them;  that  she  was 
different  to  him  from  what  she  was 
to  the  others.  Then  she  had  failed 
him  at  the  moment  of  need.  He  would 
not  be  taken  back  half-way,  with  the 
crowd.  He  could  not.  So  he  had  civilly 
ignored  the  hand  which  she  had  held 

[42] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
out  several  times,   in   several  ways. 
Hurt  and  proud,  yet  without  conceit, 
he  believed  that  she  kept  him  at  a 
distance,  and  he  would  not  risk  com- 
ing too  near,  and  so  stayed  altogether 
away.  It  happens  at  times  that  a  big,  I 
attractive,  self-possessed  man  is  se-l 
cretly  as  shy,  as  fanciful,  as  the  shyest  1 
girl — if  he  cares.  Once  and  again  in-  1 
deed  the  idea  flashed  into  the  mind  of 
Johnny  McLean — that  perhaps  shel 
had  been  so  sorry  that  she  did  not  darej 
look  at  himU  But  he  flung  that  aside 
with  a  savage  half-laugh. 

"What  rot!  It's  probable  that  I  was 
important  enough  for  that,  isn't  it? 
You  fool!"  And  about  then  he  was 
likely  to  get  up  with  a  spring  and  at- 
tack a  new  book  on  pillar  and  shaft 
versus  the  block  system  of  mining 
coal. 

[43] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 
The  busy  days  went  on,  and  the 
work  grew  more  absorbing,  the  at- 
mosphere more  charged  with  an  elec- 
tricity which  foretold  tempest.  The 
president  knew  that  the  personality 
of  the  young  superintendent  almost 
alone  held  the  electricity  in  solution; 
that  for  months  he  and  his  little  mu- 
sical club  an.d  his  large  popularity 
had  kept  off  the  strike.  Till  at  last  a 
day  came  in  early  May. 
|  We  sit  at  the  ends  of  the  earth  and 
,sew  on  buttons  and  play  cards  while 
fate  wipes  from  existence  the  thing 
dearest  to  us.  Johnny's  father  that 
afternoon  mounted  his  new  saddle- 
horse  and  rode  through  the  afternoon 
lights  and  shadows  of  spring.  The 
girl,  who  had  not  forgotten,  either, 
went  to  a  luncheon  and  the  theatre 
after.  And  it  was  not  till  next  morn- 

[44] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
ing  that  Brant,  her  brother,  called  to 
her,  as  she  went  upstairs  after  break- 
fast, in  a  voice  which  brought  her 
running  back.  He  had  a  paper  in  his 
hand,  and  he  held  it  to  her. 

"What  is  it,  Brant?  Something 
bad?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  breathing  fast.  "Aw- 
ful. It's  going  to  make  you  feel  badly, 
for  you  liked  him — poor  old  Johnny 
McLean." 

"Johnny  McLean?"  she  repeated. 
Brant  went  on: 

"Yesterday — a  mine  accident.  He 
went  down  after  the  entombed  men. 
Not  a  chance."  Brant's  mouth 
worked.  "He  died — like  a  hero — 
you  know."  The  girl  stared. 

"Died?  Is  Johnny  McLean  dead?" 

She  did  not  fall  down,  or  cry  out,  but 
then  Brant  knew.  Swiftly  b?  «*""||fl  up 

[45] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

and  put  his  big,  brotherly  arm  around 
her. 

"Wait,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "There's 
a  ray  of  hope.  Not  really  hope,  you 
know — it  was  certain  death  he  went 
to — but  yet  they  haven't  found — they 
don't  know,  absolutely,  that  he's 
dead." 

Five  minutes  later  the  girl  was  locked 
in  her  room  with  the  paper.  His  name 
was  in  large  letters  in  the  head-lines. 
She  read  the  account  over  many  times, 
with  painstaking  effort  to  understand 
that  this  meant  Johnny  McLean. 
That  he  was  down  there  now,  while 
she  breathed  pure  air.  Many  times 
she  read  it,  dazed.  Suddenly  she 
flashed  to  the  window  and  threw  it 
open  and  beat  on  the  stone  sill  and 
dragged  her  hands  across  it.  Then  in 
a  turn  she  felt  this  to  be  worse  than 

[46] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
useless  and  dropped  on  her  knees  and 
fm^pH  nut  what  prayer  is!  She  read 
the    paper   again,    then,    and    faced 
things. 

It  was  the  often-repeated,  incredible 
story  of  men  so  accustomed  to  danger 
that  they  throw  away  their  lives  in 
sheer  carelessness.  A  fire  down  in  the 
third  level,  five  hundred  feet  under- 
ground; delay  in  putting  it  out;  shift- 
ing of  responsibility  of  one  to  another, 
mistakes  and  stupidity ;  then  the  sud- 
den discovering  that  they  were  all  but 
cut  off;  the  panic  and  the  crowding 
for  the  shaft,  and  scenes  of  terror  and 
selfishness  and  heroism  down  in  the 
darkness  and  smothering  smoke. 

The  newspaper  story  told  how  Mc- 
Lean, the  young  superintendent,  had 
come  running  down  the  street,  bare- 
headed, with  his  light,  great  pace  of 

[47] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

an  athlete.  How,  just  as  he  got  there, 
the  cage  of  six  men,  which  had  gone 
to  the  third  level,  had  been  drawn  up 
after  vague,  wild  signalling,  filled  with 
six  corpses.  How,  when  the  crowd  had 
seen  that  he  meant  to  go  down,  a 
storm  of  appeal  had  broken  that  he 
should  not  throw  his  life  away;  how 
the  very  women  whose  husbands  and 
sons  were  below  had  clung  to  him. 
Then  the  paper  told  how  he  had 
turned  at  the  mouth  of  the  shaft — 
the  girl  could  see  him  standing  there 
tall  and  broad,  with  the  light  on  his 
boyish  blond  head.  He  had  snatched 
a  paper  from  his  pocket  and  waved 
it  at  arm's-length  so  that  every  one 
could  see.  The  map  of  the  mine. 
Gallery  57,  on  the  second  level,  where 
the  men  now  below  had  been  work- 
ing, wTas  close  to  gallery  9,  entered 

[48] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
from  the  other  shaft  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away.  The  two  galleries  did  not 
communicate,  but  only  six  feet  of 
earth  divided  them.  The  men  might 
chop  through  to  9  and  reach  the  other 
shaft  and  be  saved.  But  the  men  did 
not  know  it.  He  explained  shortly  that 
he  must  get  to  them  and  tell  them. 
He  would  go  to  the  second  level  and 
with  an  oxygen  helmet  would  reach 
possible  air  before  he  was  caught. 
Quickly,  with  an  unhesitating  deci- 
sion, he  talked,  and  his  buoyancy  put 
courage  into  the  stricken  crowd. 
With  that  a  woman's  voice  lifted. 

"Don't  go— don't  ye  go,  darlin',"  it 
screamed. "  'Tis  no  f rinds  down  there. 
'Tis  Terence  O'Hara  and  his  gang 
— 'tis  the  strike-makers.  Don't  be 
throwin*  away  your  sweet  young  life 
for  thim." 

[49] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 
The  boy  laughed.  "That's  all  right. 
Terence  has  a  right  to  his  chance."  He 
went  on  rapidly.  "  I  want  five  volun- 
teers— quick.  A  one-man  chance  isn't 
enough  to  take  help.  Quick — five." 

And  twenty  men  pushed  to  the  boy 
to  follow  him  into  hell.  Swiftly  he 
picked  five;  they  put  on  the  heavy 
oxygen  helmets;  there  was  a  deep 
silence  as  the  six  stepped  into  the  cage 
and  McLean  rang  the  bell  that  sig- 
nalled the  engineer  to  let  them  down. 
That  was  all.  They  were  the  last 
rescuers  to  go  down,  and  the  cage  had 
been  drawn  up  empty.  That  was  all, 
the  newspaper  said.  The  girl  read  it. 
All!  And  his  father  racing  across  the 
continent,  to  stand  with  the  shawled 
women  at  the  head  of  the  shaft.  And 
she,  in  this  far-off  city,  going  through 
the  motions  of  living. 

[50] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
The  papers  told  of  the  crowds  gath- 
ered, of  the  Red  Cross,  of  the  experts 
come  to  consider  the  situation,  of  the 
line  of  patient  women,  with  shawls 
over  their  heads,  waiting  always, 
there  at  the  first  gray  light,  there  when 
night  fell;  the  girl,  gasping  at  her 
window,  would  have  given  years  of 
life  to  have  stood  with  those  women. 
The  second  day  she  read  that  they 
had  closed  the  mouth  of  the  shaft;  it 
was  considered  that  the  one  chance 
for  life  below  lay  in  smothering  the 
flames.  When  the  girl  read  that,  a 
madness  came  on  her.  The  shawled 
women  felt  that  same  madness ;  if  the 
inspectors  and  the  company  officials 
had  insisted  they  could  not  have  kept 
the  mine  closed  long — the  people 
would  have  opened  it  by  force ;  it  was 
felt  unendurable  to  seal  their  men  be- 

[51] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

low ;  the  shaft  was  unsealed  in  twenty- 
four  hours.  But  smoke  came  out,  and 
then  the  watchers  realized  that  a  wall 
of  flame  was  worse  than  a  wall  of 
planks  and  sand,  and  the  shaft  was 
closed  again. 

For  days  there  was  no  news;  then 
the  first  fruitless  descent;  then  men 
went  down  and  brought  up  heavy 
shapes  rolled  in  canvas  and  bore  them 
to  the  women;  and  "each  morning 
the  Red  Cross  president,  lifting  the 
curtain  of  the  car  where  he  slept, 
would  see  at  first  light  the  still  rows 
of  those  muffled  figures  waiting  in  the 
hopeless  daybreak."  Not  yet  had  the 
body  of  the  young  superintendent 
been  found;  yet  one  might  not  hope 
because  of  that.  But  when  one  after- 
noon the  head-lines  of  the  papers 
blazed  with  a  huge  "Rescued,"  she 

[52] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
could  not  read  it,  and  she  knew  that 
she  had  hoped. 

It  was  true.  Eighteen  men  had  been 
brought  up  alive,  and  Johnny  Mc- 
Lean was  one.  Johnny  McLean  car- 
ried out  senseless,  with  an  arm 
broken,  with  a  gash  in  his  forehead 
done  by  a  falling  beam  as  he  crawled 
to  hail  the  rescuers — but  Johnny  Mc- 
Lean alive.  He  was  very  ill,  yet  the 
girl  had  not  a  minute's  doubt  that  he 
would  get  well. 

And  while  he  lay  unconscious,  the  pa- 
pers of  the  country  rang  with  the  story 
of  what  he  had  done,  and  his  father 
sitting  by  his  bed  read  it,  through 
unashamed  tears,  but  Johnny  took  no 
interest.  Breathing  satisfied  him  pretty 
well  for  a  while.  There  is  no  need 
to  tell  over  what  the  papers  told — 
how  he  had  taken  the  leadership  of 

[53] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

the  demoralized  band ;  how  when  he 
found  them  cut  off  from  the  escape 
which  he  had  planned  he  had  set  them 
to  work  building  a  barrier  across  a 
passage  where  the  air  was  fresher; 
how  behind  this  barrier  they  had  lived 
for  six  days,  by  the  faith  and  courage 
of  Johnny  McLean.  How  he  had 
kept  them  busy  playing  games,  tell- 
ing stories;  had  taught  them  music 
and  put  heart  into  them  to  sing 
glees,  down  in  their  tomb;  how  he 
had  stood  guard  over  the  pitiful  sup- 
ply of  water  which  dripped  from  the 
rock  walls,  and  found  ways  of  saving 
every  drop  and  made  each  man  take 
his  turn ;  how  when  Tom  Steele  went 
mad  and  tried  to  break  out  of  the 
barrier  on  the  fifth  day,  it  was  Mc- 
Lean who  fought  him  and  kept  him 
from  the  act  which  would  have  let  in 

[54] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
the  black  damp  to  kill  all  of  them; 
how  it  was  the  fall  in  the  slippery 
darkness  of  that  struggle  which  had 
broken  his  arm.  The  eighteen  told 
the  story,  bit  by  bit,  as  the  men  grew 
strong  enough  to  talk,  and  the  record 
rounded  out,  of  life  and  reason  saved 
by  a  boy  who  had  risen  out  of  the  gray 
of  commonplace  into  the  red  light  of 
heroism.  The  men  who  came  out  of 
that  burial  spoke  afterward  of  Mc- 
Lean as  of  an  inspired  being. 

At  all  events  the  strike  question  was 
settled  in  that  week  below,  and  Johnny 
McLean  held  the  ringleaders  now 
in  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  Terence 
O'Hara  opened  his  eyes  and  delivered 
a  dictum  two  hours  after  he  was 
carried  home.  "Tell  thim  byes," 
he  growled  in  weak  jerks,  "that  if 
any  wan  of  thim  says  shtrike  till  that 
155] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

McLean  child  drops  the  hat,  they'll 
fight— O'Hara." 

Day  after  day,  while  the  country  was 
in  an  uproar  of  enthusiasm,  Johnny 
lay  unconscious,  breathing,  and  doing 
no  more.  And  large  engineering  affairs 
were  allowed  to  go  to  rack  and  ruin 
while  Henry  McLean  watched  his 
son. 

On  a  hot  morning  such  as  comes  in 
May,  a  veteran  fly  of  the  year  before 
buzzed  about  the  dim  window  of  the 
sick-room  and  banged  against  the 
half-closed  shutters.  Half-conscious 
of  the  sound  the  boy's  father  read 
near  it,  when  another  sound  made  his 
pulse  jump. 

"Chase  him  out,"  came  from  the 
bed  in  a  weak,  cheerful  voice.  "  Don't 
want  any  more  things  shut  up  for  a 
spell." 

[56] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
An  hour  later  the  older  man  stood 
over  the  boy.  "Do  you  know  your 
next  job,  Johnny  ?"  he  said.  "You've 
got  to  get  well  in  three  weeks.  Your 
triennial  in  New  Haven  is  then." 

"  Holy — mackerel ! "  exploded  the 
feeble  tones.  "All  right,  Henry,  I'll 
do  it." 

Somewhere  in  the  last  days  of  June, 
jew  England  is  at  its  loveliest  and  it 
s  commencement  time  at  Yale.  Under 
he  tall  elms  stretch  the  shady  streets, 
alive    eternally    with    the    ever-new 
outh   of  ever-coming   hundreds   of 
boys.  But  at  commencement  the  pleas- 
ant, drowsy  ways  take  on  an  astonish- 
ing character;  it  is  as  if  the  little  city 
had  gone  joyfully  mad.   Hordes  of 
men  of  all  ages,  in  startling  clothes, 
appear  in  all  quarters.  Under  Phelps 

[57] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

gate-way  one  meets  pirates  with  long 
hair,  with  ear-rings,  with  red  sashes ; 
crossing  the  campus  comes  a  band 
of  Highlanders,  in  front  of  the  New 
Haven  House  are  stray  Dutchmen  and 
Japanese  and  Punchinellos  and  other 
flotsam  not  expected  in  a  decorous 
town;  down  College  Street  a  group 
of  men  in  gowns  of  white  swing  away 
through  the  dappled  shadows. 

The  atmosphere  is  enchanted;  it  is 
full  of  greetings  and  reunions  and  new 
beginnings  of  old  friendship;  with 
the  every-day  clothes  the  boys  of  old 
have  shed  responsibilities  and  dig- 
nities and  are  once  more  irresponsi- 
bly the  boys  of  old.  From  California 
and  Florida,  even  from  China  and 
France,  they  come  swarming  into  the 
Puritan  place,  while  in  and  out 
through  the  light-hearted  kaleido- 

[58] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
scopic  crowd  hurry  slim  youngsters 
in  floating  black  gown  and  scholar's 
cap — the  text  of  all  this  celebration, 
the  graduating  class.  Because  of  them 
it  is  commencement,  it  is  they  who 
step  now  over  the  threshold  and  carry 
^Yale's  honor  in  their  young  hands 
into  the  world.  But  small  attention 
do  they  get,  the  graduating  class,  at 
commencement.  The  classic  note  of 
their  grave  youthfulness  is  drowned 
in  the  joyful  uproar;  in  the  clamor 
of  a  thousand  greetings  one  does  not 
listen  to  these  voices  which  say  fare- 
well. From  the  nucleus  of  these  busy, 
black-clad  young  fellows,  the  folds  of 
their  gowns  billowing  about  light, 
strong  figures,  the  stern  lines  of  the 
Oxford  cap  graciously  at  odds  with 
the  fresh  modelling  of  their  faces — 
down  from  these  lads  in  black,  the 

[59] 


THE   COURAGE  OF 

largest  class  of  all,  taper  the  classes, 
— fewer,  grayer,  as  the  date  is  older, 
till  a  placard  on  a  tree  in  the  campus 
tells  that  the  class  of  '51,  it  may  be, 
has  its  head-quarters  at  such  a  place ; 
a  handful  of  men  with  white  hair  are 
lunching  together — and  that  is  a  re- 
union. OjX '. ! 

In  the  afternoon  of  commencement 
day  there  is  a  base-ball  game  at  Yale 
Field.  To  that  the  returning  classes 
go  in  costume,  mostly  marching  out 
afoot,  each  with  its  band  of  music, 
through  the  gay,  dusty  street,  by  the 
side  of  the  gay,  crowded  trolley-cars 
loaded  to  the  last  inch  of  the  last  step 
with  a  holiday  crowd,  good-natured, 
sympathetic,  full  of  humor  as  an 
American  crowd  is  always.  The  men 
march  laughing,  talking,  nodding  to 
friends  in  the  cars,  in  the  motors,  in 

[60] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
the  carriages  which  fly  past  them ;  the 
bands  play;  the  houses  are  faced  with 
people  come  to  see  the  show. 

The  amphitheatre  of  Yale  Field  is 
packed  with  more  than  ten  thousand. 
The  seniors  are  there  with  their 
mothers  and  fathers,  their  pretty  little 
sisters  and  their  proud  little  broth- 
ers— the  flower  of  the  country.  One 
looks  about  and  sees  everywhere  high- 
bred faces,  strong  faces,  open-eyed, 
drinking  in  this  extraordinary  scene. 
For  there  is  nothing  just  like  it  else- 
where. Across  the  field  where  hun- 
dreds of  automobiles  and  carriages 
are  drawn  close — beyond  that  is  a 
gate-way,  and  through  this,  at  three 
o'clock  or  so,  comes  pouring  a  rain- 
bow. A  gigantic,  light-filled,  motion- 
swept  rainbow  of  men.  The  first  rays 
of  vivid  color  resolve  into  a  hundred 
[61] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

Japanese  geishas;  they  come  dan- 
cing, waving  paper  umbrellas  down 
Yale  Field;  on  their  heels  press 
Dutch  kiddies,  wooden-shod,  in  scar- 
let and  white,  with  wigs  of  peroxide 
hair.  Then  sailors,  some  of  them 
twirling  oars — the  famous  victorious 
crew  of  fifteen  years  back ;  with  these 
march  a  dozen  lads  from  fourteen  to 
eight,  the  sons  of  the  class,  sailor-clad 
too;  up  from  their  midst  as  they 
reach  the  centre  of  the  field  drifts  a 
flight  of  blue  balloons  of  all  sizes. 
Then  come  the  men  of  twenty  years 
ago  stately  in  white  gowns  and  mor- 
tar-boards ;  then  the  Triennials,  with 
a  class  boy  of  two  years,  costumed 
in  miniature  and  trundled  in  a  go- 
cart  by  a  nervous  father.  The  High- 
landers stalk  by  to  the  skirl  of  bag- 
pipes with  their  contingent  of  tall 

[62] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
boys,  the  coming  sons  of  Alma  Mater. 
The  thirty-five-year  graduates,  eighty 
strong,  the  men  who  are  handling  the 
nation,  wear  a  unanimous  sudden 
growth  of  rolling  gray  beard.  Class 
after  class  they  come,  till  over  a  thou- 
sand men  have  marched  out  to  the 
music  of  bands,  down  Yale  Field  and 
past  the  great  circle  of  the  seats,  and 
have  settled  in  brilliant  masses  of 
color  on  the  "bleachers."  Then  from 
across  the  field  rise  men's  voices  sing- 
ing. They  sing  the  college  songs  which 
their  fathers  sang,  which  their  sons 
and  great-grandsons  will  sing.  The 
rhythm  rolls  forward  steadily  in  all 
those  deep  voices: 

"Nor  time  nor  change  can  aught  avail," 

the  words  come, 

"To  break  the  friendships  formed  at  Yale." 
[63] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

/  There  is  many  a  breath  caught  in 
/the  crowded  multitude  to  hear  the 
men  sing  that. 

Then  the  game — and  Yale  wins. 
The  classes  pour  on  the  field  in  a 
stormy  sea  of  color,  and  dance  qua- 
drilles, and  form  long  lines  hand  in 
hand  which  sway  and  cross  and  play 
fantastically  in  a  dizzying,  tremen- 
dous jubilation  which  fills  all  of  Yale 
Field.  The  people  standing  up  to  go 
cannot  go,  but  stay  and  watch  them, 
these  thousand  children  of  many  ages, 
this  marvellous  show  of  light-heart- 
edness  and  loyalty.  Till  at  last  the 
costumes  drift  together  in  platoons 
and  disappear  slowly ;  and  the  crowd 
thins  and  the  last  and  most  stirring 
act  of  the  commencement-day  drama 
is  at  hand. 

It  has  come  to  be  an  institution  that 

[64] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
after  the  game  the  old  graduates 
should  go,  class  by  class,  to  the  house 
of  the  president  of  Yale,  to  renew 
allegiance.  It  has  come  to  be  an  in- 
stitution that  he,  standing  on  the  steps 
of  his  house,  should  make  a  short 
speech  to  each  class.  The  rainbow  of 
men,  sweeping  gloriously  down  the 
city  streets  with  their  bands,  dissolves 
into  a  whirlwind  at  the  sight  of  that 
well-known,  slight,  dignified  figure  on 
the  doorstep  of  the  modest  house — 
this  is  a  thing  which  one  who  has  seen 
it  does  not  forget;  the  three-minute 
speeches,  each  apt  to  its  audience, 
each  pointed  with  a  dart  straight  to 
the  heart  of  class  pride  and  sentiment, 
these  are  a  marvel.  Few  men  living; 
could  come  out  of  such  a  test  credit- 
ably; only  this  master  of  men  and 
of  boys  could  do  it  as  he  does  it.  For 

[65] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

each  class  goes  away  confident  that 
the  president  at  least  shares  its  con- 
viction that  it  is  the  best  class  ever 
graduated.  Life  might  well  be  worth 
living,  it  would  seem,  to  a  man  who 
should  hear  every  year  hundreds  of 
men's  voices  thundering  his  name  as 
these  men  behind  the  class  banners. 
Six  weeks  after  the  disaster  of  the 
Oriel  mine  it  was  commencement 
day  in  New  Haven  and  Johnny  Mc- 
Lean, his  broken  arm  in  a  sling, 
a  square  of  adhesive  plaster  on  his 
forehead,  was  back  for  his  Triennial. 
He  was  mightily  astonished  at  the 
greeting  he  got.  Classmates  came  up 
to  him  and  shook  his  hand  and  said 
half  a  sentence  and  stopped,  with  an 
arm  around  his  shoulder;  people 
treated  him  in  a  remarkable  way,  as 
if  he  had  done  something  unheard  of. 

[66] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
It  gratified  him,  after  a  fashion,  yet 
it  more  than  half  annoyed  him.  He 
mentioned  over  and  over  again  in  pro- 
test that  he  had  done  nothing  which 
"every  one  of  you  fellows  wouldn't 
have  done  just  the  same,"  but  they 
laughed  at  that  and  stood  staring  in  a 
most  embarrassing  way. 

"Gosh,  Johnny  McLean,"  Tim 
Erwin  remarked  finally,  "wake  up 
and  hear  the  birdies  sing.  Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  you  don't  know 
you're  the  hero  of  the  whole  blamed 
nation  ?  " 

And  Johnny  McLean  turned  scarlet 
and  replied  that  he  didn't  think  it  so 
particularly  funny  to  guy  a  man  who 
had  attended  strictly  to  his  business, 
and  walked  off.  While  Erwin  and  the 
others  regarded  him  astounded. 
"Well,  if  that  isn't  too  much!" 

T671 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

gasped  Tim.   "He  actually  doesn't 
know!" 

"He's  likely  to  find  out  before  we 
get  through,"  Neddy  Haines,  of 
Denver,  jerked  out  nasally,  and  they 
laughed  as  if  at  a  secret  known  to- 
gether. 

So  Johnny  pursued  his  way  through 
the  two  or  three  days  before  com- 
mencement, absorbed  in  meeting 
friends,  embarrassed  at  times  by  their 
manner,  but  taking  obstinately  the 
modest  place  in  the  class  which  he 
had  filled  in  college.  It  did  not  enter 
his  mind  that  anything  he  had  done 
could  alter  his  standing  with  the  "fel- 
lows." Moreover,  he  did  not  spend 
time  considering  that.  So  he  was  one 
of  two  hundred  Buster  Browns  who 
marched  to  Yale  Field  in  white  Rus- 
sian blouses  with  shiny  blue  belts,  in 

[681 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
sailor  hats  with  blue  ribbons,  and 
when  the  Triennials  rushed  tempest- 
uously down  Trumbull  Street  in  the 
tracks  of  the  gray-beards  of  thirty- 
five  years  before,  Johnny  found  him- 
self carried  forward  so  that  he  stood 
close  to  the  iron  fence  which  guards 
the  little  yard  from  the  street.  There 
is  always  an  afternoon  tea  at  the 
president's  house  after  the  game,  to 
let  people  see  the  classes  make  their 
call  on  the  head  of  the  University. 
The  house  was  full  of  people;  the 
yard  was  filled  with  gay  dresses  and 
men  gathered  to  see  the  parade.  On 
the  high  stone  steps  under  the  arch  of 
the  doorway  stood  the  president  and 
close  by  him  the  white,  light  figure  of 
a  little  girl,  her  black  hair  tied  with 
a  big  blue  bow.  Clustered  in  the 
shadow  behind  them  were  other  fig- 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

ures.  Johnny  McLean  saw  the  little 
maid  and  then  his  gaze  was  riveted 
on  the  president.  It  surely  was  good 
to  see  him  again ;  this  man  who  knew 
how  to  make  them  all  swear  by  him. 

"What  will  he  have  to  say  to  us," 
Johnny  wondered.  "Something  that 
will  please  the  whole  bunch,  I'll  bet. 
He  always  hits  it." 

"Men   of  the  class  of  ,"   the 

president  began,  in  his  deep,  char- 
acteristic intonations,  "I  know  that 
there  is  only  one  name  you  want  to 
hear  me  speak;  only  one  thought  in 
all  the  minds  of  your  class." 

A  hoarse  murmur  which  a  second's 
growth  would  have  made  into  a  wild 
shout  started  in  the  throats  of  the 
massed  men  behind  the  class  banner. 
The  president  held  up  his  hand. 

"  Wait  a  minute.  We  want  that  cheer; 

[70] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
we'll  have  it;  but  I've  got  a  word  first. 
A  great  speaker  who  talked  to  you 
boys  in  your  college  course  said  a 
thing  that  came  to  my  mind  to-day. 
'The  courage  of  the  commonplace,' 
he  said,  'is  greater  than  the  courage 
of  the  crisis.'" 

Again  that  throaty,  threatening 
growl,  and  again  the  president's  hand 
went  up — the  boys  were  hard  to  hold. 

"I  see  a  man  among  you  whose  life 
has  added  a  line  to  that  saying,  who 
has  shown  to  the  world  that  it  is  the 
courage  of  the  commonplace  which 
trains  for  the  courage  of  the  crisis. 
And  that's  all  I've  got  to  say,  for  the 
nation  is  saying  the  rest — except  three 
times  three  for  the  glory  of  the  class 

of ,    the    newest   name    on    the 

honor  roll  of  Yale,  McLean  of  the 
Oriel  mine." 

[71] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 
It  is  probably  a  dizzying  thing  to  be 
snatched  into  the  seventh  heaven. 
Johnny  McLean  standing,  scarlet, 
stunned,  his  eyes  glued  on  the  iron 
fence  between  him  and  the  president, 
knew  nothing  except  a  whirling  of  his 
brain  and  an  earnest  prayer  that  he 
might  not  make  a  fool  of  himself 
With  that,  even  as  the  thunder  of 
voices  began,  he  felt  himself  lifted, 
swung  to  men's  shoulders,  carried 
forward.  And  there  he  sat  in  his  fool- 
ish Buster  Brown  costume,  with  his 
broken  arm  in  its  sling,  with  the  white 
patch  on  his  forehead,  above  his  roar- 
ing classmates.  There  he  sat  perspir- 
ing and  ashamed,  and  faced  the  head 
of  the  University,  who,  it  must  be 
said,  appeared  not  to  miss  the  humor 
of  the  situation,  for  he  laughed  con- 
sumedly.  And  still  they  cheered  and 

[72] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
still  his  name  rang  again  and  again. 
Johnny,  hot  and  squirming  under  the 
merry  presidential  eye,  wondered  if 
they  were  going  to  cheer  all  night.  And 
suddenly  everything — class-mates, 
president,  roaring  voices — died 
away.  There  was  just  one  thing  on 
earth.  In  the  doorway,  in  the  group 
behind  the  president,  a  girl  stood  with 
her  head  against  the  wall  and  cried 
as  if  her  heart  would  break.  Cried 
frankly,  openly,  mopping  away  tears 
with  a  whole-hearted  pocket-hand- 
kerchief, and  cried  more  to  mop 
away.  As  if  there  were  no  afternoon 
tea,  no  mob  of  Yale  men  in  the  streets, 
no  world  full  of  people  who  might,  if 
they  pleased,  see  those  tears  and  un- 
derstand. The  girl.  Herself.  Crying. 
In  a  flash,  by  the  light  of  the  happi- 
ness that  was  overwhelming,  he  found 

[73] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

this  other  happiness.  He  understood. 
The  mad  idea  which  had  come  back 
and  back  to  him  out  there  in  the  West, 
which  he  had  put  down  firmly,  the 
idea  that  she  ha^i  cared  too  much  and 
nfA  ton  Htfjf  on  that  Tap  Day  four 
years  ago — that  idea  was  true.  She 
did  care.  She  cared  still.  He  knew  it 
without  a  doubt.  He  sat  on  the  men's 
shoulders  in  his  ridiculous  clothes, 
and  the  heavens  opened.  Then  the 
tumult  and  the  shouting  died  and  they 
let  the  hero  down,  and  to  the  rapid 
succession  of  strong  emotions  came  as 
a  relief  another  emotion — enthusiasm. 
They  were  cheering  the  president, 
on  the  point  of  bursting  themselves 
into  fragments  to  do  it,  it  seemed. 
There  were  two  hundred  men  be- 
hind the  class  banner,  and  each  one 
was  converting  what  was  convertible 

[74] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
of  his  being  into  noise.  Johnny  Mc- 
Lean turned  to  with  a  will  and  thun- 
dered into  the  volume  of  tone  which 
sounded  over  and  over  the  twgLshort 
syllables  of  a  name  which  to  a  Yale 
man's  idea  fits  a  cheer  better  than 
most.  The  president  stood  quiet,  un- 
der the  heaped-up  honors  of  a  brill- 
iant career,  smiling  and  steady  under 
that  delirious  music  of  his  own  name 
rising,  winged  with  men's  hearts,  to 
the  skies.  Then  the  band  was  playing 
again  and  they  were  marching  off 
down  the  street  together,  this  wonder- 
ful class  that  knew  how  to  turn  earth 
into  heaven  for  a  fellow  who  hadn't 
done  much  of  a  stunt  anyhow,  this 
grand,  glorious,  big-hearted  lot  of 
chaps  who  would  have  done  much 
more  in  his  place,  every  soul  of  them — 
so  Johnny  McLean's  thoughts  leaped 

[75] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

in  time  with  his  steps  as  they  marched 
away.  And  once  or  twice  a  terror 
seized  him — for  he  was  weak  yet 
from  his  illness — that  he  was  go- 
ing to  make  "a  fool  of  himself."  He 
remembered  how  the  girl  had  cried; 
he  thought  of  the  way  the  boys  had 
loaded  him  with  honor  and  affection ; 
he  heard  the  president's  voice  speak- 
ing those  impossible  words  about  him 
— about  him — and  he  would  have 
given  a  large  sum  of  money  at  one  or 
two  junctures  to  bolt  and  get  behind 
a  locked  door  alone  where  he  might 
cry  as  the  girl  had.  But  the  unsen- 
timental hilarity  all  around  saved 
him  and  brought  him  through  with- 
out a  stain  on  his  behavior.  Only  he 
could  not  bolt — he  could  not  get  a 
moment  to  himself  for  love  or  money. 
It  was  for  love  he  wanted  it.  He  must 

[76] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
find  her — he  could  not  wait  now.  But 
he  had  to  wait.  He  had  to  go  into  the 
country  to  dinner  with  them  all  and 
be  lionized  and  made  speeches  at, 
and  made  fun  of,  and  treated  as  the 
darling  child  and  the  pride  and  joy 
and — what  was  harder  to  bear — as  the 
hero  and  the  great  man  of  the  class. 
All  the  time  growing  madder  with 
restlessness,  for  who  could  tell  if  she 
might  not  be  leaving  town!  A  rem- 
nant of  the  class  ahead  crossed  them 
— and  there  was  Brant,  her  brother. 
Diplomacy  was  not  for  Johnny  Mc- 
Lean— he  was  much  too  anxious. 

"  Brant,  look  here,"  and  he  drew 
him  into  a  comparative  corner. 
"Where  is  she?"  Brant  did  not  pre- 
tend not  to  understand,  but  he 
grinned. 

"At  the  Andersons',  of  course." 

[77] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 

"Now?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so." 

"Fellows,"  said  Johnny  McLean, 
"I'm  sorry,  but  I've  got  to  sneak. 
I'm  going  back  to  town." 

Sentences  and  scraps  of  sentences 
came  flying  at  him  from  all  over. 
"Hold  him  down"— "Chain  him 
up"  —  "  Going  —  tommy-rot  —  can't 
go!"  "You'll  be  game  for  the  round- 
up at  eleven — you've  got  to  be."  "  Our 
darling  boy — he's  got  to  be,"  and 
more  language. 

"All  right  for  eleven,"  Johnny 
agreed.  "I'll  be  at  head-quarters  then 
— but  I'm  going  now,"  and  he  went. 

He  found  her  in  a  garden,  which  is 
the  best  place  to  make  love.  Each  place 
is  the  best.  And  in  some  mystical 
manner  all  the  doubt  and  unhappi- 
ness  which  had  been  gone  over  i 

[78] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
labored  volumes  of  thoughts  by  each 
alone,  melted  to  nothing,  at  two  or 
three  broken  sentences.  There  seemed 
to  be  nothing  to  say,  for  everything 
was  said  in  a  wordless,  clear  mode 
of  understanding,  which  lovers  and 
saints  know.  There  was  little  plot  to 
it,  yet  there  was  no  lack  of  interest. 
In  fact  so  light-footed  were  the  swift 
moments  in  the  rose-scented  dark 
garden  that  Johnny  McLean  forgot, 
as  others  have  forgotten  before  him, 
that  time  was.  He  forgot  that  mag- 
nificent lot  of  fellows,  his  classmates ; 
there  was  not  a  circumstance  outside 
of  the  shadowy  garden  which  he  did 
not  whole-heartedly  forget.  Till  a 
shock  brought  him  to. 

The  town  was  alive  with  bands  and 
cheers  and  shouts  and  marching;  the 
distant  noises  rose  and  fell  and  fused 

[79] 


THE  COURAGE  OF 
and  separated,  but  kept  their  distance. 
When  one  body  of  sound,  which  un- 
noticed by  the  lovers  had  been  grow- 
ing less  vague,  more  compact,  broke 
all  at  once  into  loud  proximity — 
men  marching,  men  shouting,  men 
singing.  The  two,  hand  tight  in  hand, 
started,  looked  at  each  other,  listened 
— and  then  a  name  came  in  a  dozen 
sonorous  voices,  as  they  used  to  shout 
it  in  college  days,  across  the  Berkeley 
Oval. 

"McLean!  McLean!"  they  called. 
"  Oh,  Johnny  McLean ! "  and  "  Come 
out  there,  oh,  Johnny  McLean!" 
That  was  Baby  Thomas. 

"By  Jove,  they've  trapped  me,"  he 
said,  smiling  in  the  dark  and  holding 
the  hand  tighter  as  the  swinging  steps 
stopped  in  front  of  the  house  of  the 
garden.  "Brant  must  have  told." 

[80] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 
"They've  certainly  found  you,"  the 
girl  said.  Her  arms,  lifted  slowly,  went 
about  his  neck  swiftly.  "You're  mine 
— but  you're  theirs  to-night.  I  haven't 
a  right  to  so  much  of  you  even.  You're 
theirs.  Go."  And  she  held  him.  But 
in  a  second  she  had  pushed  him  away. 
"Go,"  she  said.  "You're  theirs,  bless 
every  one  of  them." 

She  was  standing  alone  in  the  dark, 
sweet  garden  and  there  was  a  roar  in 
the  street  which  meant  that  he  had 
opened  the  door  and  they  had  seen 
him.  And  with  that  there  were  shouts 
of  "Put  him  up"— "Carry  him"— 
"Carry  the  boy,"  and  laughter  and 
shouting  and  then  again  the  measured 
tread  of  many  men  retreating  down 
the  street,  and  men's  voices  singing 
together.  The  girl  in  the  dark  garden 
stood  laughing,  crying,  and  listened. 
[Si] 


THE  COMMONPLACE 

"Mother  of  men!" — 

the  deep  voices  sang — 

"Mother  of  men  grown  strong  in  giving — 

Honor  to  him  thy  lights  have  led; 
Rich  in  the  toil  of  thousands  living. 

Proud  of  the  deeds  of  thousands  dead! 
We  who  have  felt  thy  power,  and  known  thee, 

We  in  whose  lives  thy  lights  avail, 
High,  in  our  hearts  enshrined,  enthrone  thee, 

Mother  of  men,  old  Yale!" 


[8*1 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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